It's Nice to See You're Doing Well
by Coletta
Summary: With a little encouragement, Sherlock came out to John. But that was a long time ago. Celibate-Gay!Sherlock/Straight!John friendship. The conclusion to the 'You Can Tell Me Anything Series.'
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door at the top of the stairs. "Sherlock? Your mailbox is jammed. And you must have a very persistent secret admirer because there's flowers everywhere, all addressed to you."

Sherlock cracked his flat door, peeking out, looking haggard. His dressing gown hung open limply, his night clothes wrinkled underneath. An uncharacteristic mottled stubble, sparse and thin, darkened his cheeks and chin. "Good morning."

"Good morning, dear," Mrs. Hudson said in a motherly way. "The steps, Sherlock. People can't get in and out of the building. Could you…?"

Mutely, he nodded.

A little while later, Sherlock began bringing the flowers inside. He'd barely dressed. Black trousers, his shirt tails un-tucked, his sleeves rolled up.

It took four trips, his arms loaded. Up the stairs, down the stairs, up, down. Red poppies.

The was a mirror in the hallway that Mrs. Hudson was wiping down as Sherlock went back and forth. On Sherlock's final trip she asked, "Are the gentlemen callers excited to hear you're single and available? I knew coming out your website was a good idea..."

"These are actually from _John's_ fans."

Mrs. Hudson's smile faltered a bit.

Sherlock automatically looked down at the floor. Everyone judged him for forgiving John, for still wanting to be friends with him. Whenever Sherlock mentioned his former flat-mate's name, no matter the context, people made peculiar expressions. It was a constant reminder to Sherlock that he was a joke, a has-been, and that the best of his years were behind him.

"Any news about John?" Mrs. Hudson asked cheerfully.

Sherlock knew she was just being polite. Nobody really wanted to find John. "No, Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." She wasn't sorry. It was nice of her to say sorry.

Sherlock nodded and went up the stairs.

Inside the flat, Sherlock deposited the flower pots and vases on whatever flat surfaces were available. Sighing, Sherlock put his hands on his hips and wondered what he was going to do with all of it. The flat looked like a hot house.

He tried to move everything into the kitchen, but they crowded the counters and the small windows didn't let in adequate light.

He moved everything into the sitting room. But Lestrade had taken up residence on the couch, and things were already chaos in here. Boxes and bags piled high, laundry baskets overflowing. There wasn't enough room for even the first armload of flowers.

Sherlock thought of John's room upstairs, but Molly had claimed it immediately when she moved in. She cringed whenever Sherlock referred to her bedroom as _'John's_ room.' It was probably best not to suggest storing anything related to John there.

He ended up leaving them on the floor in the hallway leading to his bedroom. He tip-toed through them. Eventually, they wilted and died. He'd throw them out. But then, there was always more. Always, always.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_Dear John,_

_I sincerely hope that you are well. _

_I have been released from the hospital and, after a brief stay with Mycroft, I've returned home to 221b Baker St. I see that you have finished moving out. Thank you for generously paying your portion of the rent in advance. It has allowed me to take some much needed time off of work. However, please contact me so I may refund you. Molly and Lestrade have taken up residence with me in your absence, and they contribute enough to satisfy the remainder of the lease. _

_Forgive me for posting such a personal letter on your blog, but I don't know how else to contact you. I understand you no longer have a fixed address and you've recently discarded your phone. I want you to know that there are many people worried about you, myself and your sister especially, and if you are able, please let us know that you are okay. If you have reservations in regards to contacting me personally, please reach out to Ella or Harry or Mike Stamford or Lestrade or Molly Hooper or Mrs. Hudson or my brother. Or, if you wish to maintain your privacy, please contact Scotland Yard and whatever message you leave them will be forwarded to us and I assure you that we will all respect your wishes to be left alone._

_With that said, I believe I owe you some apologies._

_I'm sorry for calling you an idiot. I'm sorry for calling you stupid. You are neither of those things. On the contrary, I think you are brilliant. You deserve nothing short of my absolute admiration. I liked you from the moment I met you. You earned my respect and my trust almost immediately and you continuously surprised me again and again with your loyalty, your courage and your kindness. It was very easy for me to take it for granted that no matter how difficult I made things, you always met my impossible expectations. _

_I was not a good friend to you. For that, I am deeply regretful. I don't know why I thought it was acceptable to me to hurt you, why I thought it was okay for me to insult you and demean you the way I did. I suppose I considered myself entitled. That years of teasing and harassment at the hands of my peers gave me the right to visit petty cruelties on others, even though I knew from experience that words aren't harmless. But you reminded me how words can hurt. Thank you. I know that must sound odd, but thank you. It gave me much needed perspective. In an effort to modify my behavior, and to sort out some other things, I attend therapy three times a week and Lestrade and Molly actively function as my coaches. I didn't realize how challenging it would be to change a few simple habits, but I'm working hard. If nothing else, I promise that when we meet again you'll encounter a very different man._

_There are other things I should probably apologize for. I'm sure you and I could compile quite a list. If you're willing to meet with me, we could write one together. We can go line by line and discuss how I can be a better friend. And if there was something you'd like to say, something you'd like to get off your chest, I would listen. No judgments, no expectations. _

_Now, allow me to offer forgiveness. _

_I don't believe for a moment that there's any real bigotry in your heart, though you may disagree. When I first came out, you were as kind and as brotherly as I've ever seen you. I was moved by your acceptance. You extended all your compassion and understanding to me at my most vulnerable moment. You welcomed me and treated me like a brother. That night remains my fondest memory._

_And in return, I continued to treat you with disrespect. I realize now how disappointing that must have been for you. I have come to understand that this was why you were angry. I completely misunderstood why you felt the way you did. You may even have misunderstood why you were angry with me. I mislabeled your resentment as homophobia. I approached you all wrong. I take full responsibility for my part in this mess. As for all that came after…I forgive you. If my forgiveness means anything at all, I forgive you. I'd like to say so in person._

_However, should you be unwilling to see me, I understand. I'm not interested in holding grudges. Let there be no ugliness between us. If a clean break is what you desire, let us part ways here, no hang-ups, no anger and, most importantly, no blame. _

_Please remember one thing though; it took Mycroft and I ten years to reconcile, but now we are trying. I never thought it would happen, and it still surprises us both. If in ten years or twenty years you look back on me with longing or regret, know that I will welcome your e-mail or phone call no matter how far the future it may come. I will always consider you my mate._

_I hope I am a better man for having known you. Your friendship has been a limitless resource that I will forever be able to draw from. I can ceaselessly dispense all the love you've given to me to everyone I have ever known or will ever meet, and still have an inexhaustible, life-time supply for myself. Thank you for being my friend._

_Again, I hope you're well. I worry about you. Please call. Please write. Please come by the flat. Please._

_Your brother for life,_

_-Sherlock _

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The letter to John, posted on _The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_, had gone viral in a matter of hours.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Sherlock discovered that his easy to copy-and-paste message had been re-posted again and again across entire social media sites. By the end of the week, it was reprinted (without permission) in two daily gossip rags, along with shameless conjecture from columnists speculating what happened between London's most popular private detective and his loyal blogger.

_"What Happened To John Watson?"_ all of London demanded to know.

The newspapers continued to print the story over and over.

A popular narrative circulated once the journalists began to investigate: When Sherlock came out as gay, John revealed himself to be a unrepentant homophobe, and later committed suicide. That he had been claimed by depression and mental illness and a failed social net for disturbed vets returning from the war.

It made for fantastic sound-bytes that easily segued into other topics, like politics and class warfare. Sherlock Holmes was the poster child for entitled, old-money snobbery, and he was gay to boot. John, by contrast, was a likable working-class hero, a nationalist and traditional icon.

As the story grew more and more popular, theories surrounding the sad happening grew more wild. Some conservative radio personalities brazenly suggested that Sherlock "could have" _murdered_ John, that the detective "could have" put his famously brilliant mind to work covering up a crime of passion after being rejected by his long-time love interest. After all, new reports were surfacing that John was moving out of the flat he shared with Sherlock for two years to live with his girlfriend. "Perhaps" Sherlock Holmes had gone off the deep end when his beau left him for a _woman_.

Suddenly, John's former girlfriend Sarah became a person of interest. Reporters stole her mail, tried to worm their way into her clinic, trying to get the inside story. She was even surprised by a paparazzi photographer outside her home. Sarah reached out to police for protection, but they could offer her very little. She took a holiday from work and left London in the middle of the night. She didn't come back.

Then new rumors began to circulate about John's sister, Harry the Drunk, a lesbian that denied John shelter because she was angry that John ending his friendship with Sherlock for being gay. The aggressive journalists now began hounding Harry, pelting her with vicious accusations of turning her back on her brother. Of course, it couldn't be further from the truth. Harry had _begged_ John to live with her, and it was Harry who'd gone to the police looking for her missing brother. But the truth couldn't be heard over the loud screaming of right-wing personalities.

However, fans of _The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_ remained largely unaffected by the media story.

Every morning, _every morning, _there were brilliant red poppies on the stoop in front of 221b. There were letters tucked in the door jam, hanging from the door knocker, slipped under the door.

Most of the letters were very tender. Adoring fans of both John and Sherlock, fans who wept for John and implored Sherlock to not give up his detective work, to not slink away in defeat, but to carry on despite his loss.

Every once in a while, there would be a vicious message hiding amongst the rest, bashing Sherlock for bringing down a hard-working former soldier like John, riddled with ignorance and homophobia. These letters Molly and Lestrade tore up immediately so that Sherlock could never see them.

As for the rest, Molly and Lestrade would leave the remaining letters neatly sorted in the sitting room, so Sherlock could leaf through them if he wanted.

Mostly he didn't.

Mostly, he didn't come out of his bedroom.

The flat was not really his anymore. It was a communal dumping ground for three unemployed, over-educated people with too much time on their hands and too many regrets and not a single plan between them. They gathered together in the morning for breakfast and coffee, which they consumed in silence. They gathered together for dinner, again, consumed in silence.

Molly tried to reach out to Sherlock. She would knock on his door, remind him to shower, remind him to launder his clothes. Brush his hair. Brush his teeth. _Today is your appointment, Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock? Come on, let's go for a walk. You haven't been out of that room in days. Come on, Sherlock. Take my hand. Let's go._

Mrs. Hudson tried to reach out. _Sherlock, can you help me with something? Thank you, I just can't lift it, it's too heavy and my hip…well, you know. Stay a minute, I've barely seen you. Let me make tea. Are you working on any cases? No? Well, you'll get your drive back. You'll see._

In his own awkward, helpless way, Lestrade tried to reach out as well. _Come on, don't you think this is odd? Who hides a body in an airplane toilet? You think he got killed while he was in there or…? I bet you could figure it out before the police can. I could make a few phone calls, you know. Donovan won't let you into her crime scenes, but Gregson still wants you. We could sneak in. Nobody would know. He's working on something right now. Why don't we see him? Sherlock?_

Mycroft was the only one who was really getting through.

Three days a week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday, Mycroft picked Sherlock up from his flat and drove him to therapy. Two hours later, Mycroft would pick his brother up.

They managed almost the whole time without speaking. They always did. Then, somewhere just before he departed, Sherlock would usually ask, "How's mum?"

"Still not speaking to me," Mycroft always said pleasantly. "She'll come around someday."

"Mmm."

"I have work for you, if you want it," Mycroft offered. "Seems a shame to let it go to waste. You have a loyal partner in Lestrade and an experienced forensic expert in Molly. The three of you could be a formidable team if you wanted to return to detective work."

Sherlock said gently, "No, that's okay." He would look out the window. "Any news about John?"

"I haven't learned anything new." Mycroft was a very careful liar. Mycroft had to rely on lies of omission to continue on, and Sherlock had to pretend to not see right through it. Of course Mycroft hadn't learned anything _new_; Mycroft already knew everything there was to know. His resources were too far-reaching to not have found out by now. He still wouldn't share with Sherlock.

Sherlock already understood what it all meant.

He took solace in the fact that John wasn't suffering. John wasn't scared or feeling useless. On the cold, winter nights, he wasn't huddled under a bridge somewhere. He wasn't hungry. John was okay. John was safe and nothing could hurt him anymore.

Mostly, Sherlock thought about John's final moments. Had it been painful? Had it been quick? Had he been scared? Was he at peace? What happened to his body? But Sherlock knew….he was better off not knowing. If he knew, it would haunt him forever.

There was also a kind of…reassurance. That Mycroft knew. Sherlock had it in his head that Mycroft would never dishonor Sherlock by letting John Watson rot in some shallow, unmarked grave. Sherlock liked to believe that John was buried with full military honors. Somewhere. Somewhere, in the secret places were double agents and secret spies and the song-less heroes are laid to rest, John H. Watson was among them, with the patriots and far better men than Sherlock could ever hope to be.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

One morning, Sherlock gathered up the notes and letters that had accumulated over the course of the year and dumped them in the trash bin out of disgust.

An hour later, he returned to the bin, sank to his knees and fished all the notes out.

He went into the sitting room, sat down on the floor and spread them in the circle around him. Then he opened them one at a time and read them. Then he would fold them back up and put them in the appropriate envelope.

Sherlock didn't know these strangers. He didn't care about them, but as he read he discovered they cared about him. They cared about John. They said so in plain, bold language that anonymity affords people, in language that people never use face-to-face. They said, Hello, my name is Robert and I was moved by your letter. Hello, my name is Beth and I'm thinking about you. You are in my heart. Hello, my name is Siraj and my family prayed for you and John last night. Hello. My name is Nazim and I'm so sorry about John. Hello. I'm sorry. We're all sorry. And we like you. Hello. Hello. You don't know me, but hello and I like you and you touched my life even though you don't know me, I'm glad you shared this letter and your experience and I'm sorry John is gone. Hello.

Sherlock gathered all the letters in a panic, crushed them against his chest. His eyes darted around the flat in a panic, like a million eyes were on him. He sat there. He didn't know what to do. Then he shoved them back down in the trash bin and slammed the lid down over it, holding it there, like he expected the letters to claw and climb their way out, like a screaming, beating, tell-tale heart.

The next morning, the stoop in front of 221b was crowded with flowers again, as it was most mornings. Sherlock refused to leave the flat.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Eventually, the media fever died down.

There were still occasionally sympathy cards. On John's birthday, there were flowers on the stoop again.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson updated suddenly.

_Dear John,_

_Happy Birthday. _

_If you were here, you would be 42 years old today._

_Tonight, I'll be having Thai in your honor because it was your favorite._

_Join me? 7:00pm 221b_

_-Sherlock_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_Dear John,_

_Sorry we didn't connect. Maybe next year._

_-Sherlock._

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

One time, Sherlock got a letter from one of John's old army buddies. Inside there was a dog-eared, 5x7 snap shot of John, with a pin-prick hole in the top like it had been on a cork board for a long time. One edge was slightly brighter and more vibrant than the rest of the photo, like maybe another photo had overlapped it a bit and faded in the light.

John was young in the photo. Fresh out of St. Barts, before he'd gone to Afghanistan, long before knowing Sherlock. His face wasn't as round as Sherlock remembered. He lacked that reserved, wizened and long-suffering look that Sherlock found so endearing. But John was smiling, wry and mischievous, and that was the same. John was happy. And that's how Sherlock wanted to remember John. He figured in ten years, he wouldn't know the difference anyway. This was John, forever.

It was Sherlock's only photo of John. He wasn't the picture-taking type, despite his sophisticated 8 mega-pixel iPhone.

He held it like he didn't know what to do with it. He gripped it gingerly, his fingertips touching just the edges.

He immediately went out and had it custom matted and framed. It went behind a beveled, acid-free 8x10 matte in a soft black oak frame. The glass was non-glare, scratch-resistant and uv-blocking, 5mm thick.

At first, Sherlock put it on the mantel above the fireplace. He stepped back to admire it, his chest swlling proudly. But when he turned around, Molly and Lestrade were looking at him. Both of them were eating breakfast in the kitchen, and they stopped mid-chew to stare.

Sherlock immediately took the photo away and gave it a home in his bedroom, on the dresser, along with the surviving poppies and the growing shrine of John's forgotten belongings; a toothbrush, a broken wrist watch and an army mug.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

_My name is _ and I'm reaching out to you because I'm a long-time reader of John Watson's blog and I actually met John face-to-face only a few months ago. I recognized him from a some photos he posted of himself online. I work on the Metropolitan rail line and I saw him standing on the rail platform early one morning. I noticed him first because he looked like he had been in a fight. His chin was bloody and his shirt was ripped. He had a dazed look. I thought maybe I was looking at a man who's just been mugged and beaten and was still in shock. I walked up to him and asked if he was okay, and when he looked at me, I realized he was John Watson. I said, "Mr. Watson, are you okay?" And he got really mad at me and told me to stop following him and to tell everyone to stop following him. He shouted and everyone was looking at him and me and I was so embarrassed, I just walked away. I had never seen him before in person and I didn't know what he was talking about. I thought it couldn't be John Watson. The man who writes the blog seemed very kind and funny and this man was just a disheveled lunatic. _

_I didn't think about it again because there was a horrible accident later that day. Someone deliberately walked out in front of a train. We had to shut the whole line down. For some reason, they never released the name of the man._

_Mr. Holmes, I haven't thought about that day until I read your letter. I have a horrible, sinking feeling that I really met John Watson that morning. And I don't want to shamelessly make speculations about who might have walked out in front of the train, but I haven't slept in two nights thinking that I might know what happened to your friend, that I might have the answers you're looking for and you don't even know me. I had to contact you. I'm so sorry if I'm wrong and this whole awful letter just serves to distress you, and I'm so much sorrier if I'm right._

_Sincerely,_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock woke up early. He showered, shaved and dressed. He stood at the mirror for a long while. He looked over his choice of suit, ran his hands over his jacket, smoothing it against his frame. He ruffled his hair, judging his curls. He rubbed his chin and cheeks. After that, he sighed. He hated everything he saw. But it was the best he could do.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_Dear John,_

_I'm delighted you've come home._

_-Sherlock_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Sherlock had simply come to accept that Mycroft was in control of his life.

He had resisted it and denied for years and years, but now, he was coming around to Mycroft's point of view. He needed to be monitored. He needed to be protected. Other people needed to be protected from him. He never should have fought in the first place. From the very beginning, Mycroft had only been trying to help. Looking back at it now, he didn't understand why he had resisted so fiercely.

But there were mood stabilizers and anti-depressants to take into account, drugs he wasn't taking before. With a regimented cocktail of medications soothing his nerves and dulling his senses, Sherlock found he didn't resist anything. A significant amount of his life felt like an out-of-body experience.

Which is why he wasn't angry at all. "Do you know anything about this?" Sherlock asked, taking the folded note and sliding it across Mycroft's desk. He wasn't being accusatory. His voice was soft. Tired. Always tired.

Mycroft carefully unfolded the note and read. His face sagged. He glanced up at Sherlock and with resignation, folded the note up again and handed it back. "Yes."

Sherlock nodded, gestured to the chair before the desk. "May I sit?"

"Please."

As Sherlock settled down, Mycroft said, "As you may have guessed, I've asked your two friends to kindly filter the mail you receive. It was my intention to prevent you from getting messages like this."

"How long have you known?"

"Since the day it happened," Mycroft admitted directly. "Three months ago. April. I can give you the exact date and the place if you like. But if you investigate, I'm afraid you'll find no security footage or any other evidence. And I didn't allow any media coverage, obviously. There's no police report."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "John's been…missing for nearly two years. He only just…? Where has he been?"

Mycroft sighed sadly. "Under bridges. Park benches. He spent time in a hospital after he was mugged by some kids. A series of shelters. He wandered a lot. He had a brief stint in a drug rehab clinic, but…he didn't want to get better."

Sherlock went cold. He reflexively curled his arms around himself and rubbed. "And…where is John now?"

"I found a dignified place. You would be pleased."

"Why? You hated him," Sherlock said coolly. "Everyone hated him. But you especially."

"But you were very fond of him," Mycroft countered. "I did it for you."

Sherlock's arms were tightly encircled around his torso. "May I see him?"

"I don't think that would be good for you."

"I want to say 'good-bye' in person."

Mycroft sighed. He thought on it. He made a decision. "Come with me."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It was a lonely stretch of track, down in the tubes. Mycroft arranged to have a station closed for 'emergency repairs' and police partitioned off the area, angry commuters milling about outside, cursing and hovering. Fake rail workers in hard-hats and yellow vests snaked in and out, appearing busy, but doing nothing.

Sherlock followed Mycroft down to the platform. Mycroft stood at the lip. "Here."

With the whole station to just the two of them, Sherlock could hear his every footstep, and his breathing was too loud. The echoes of distant trains whistled in the darkness.

Mycroft pointed down onto the tracks.

Sherlock went to stand beside Mycroft and stared down.

There was nothing to see now but gleaming rails and a grimy floor. But John Watson had laid there once, smashed and crushed and dragged along this stretch of tracks, his blood and brains and guts smeared the distance of the train.

This was the place, Sherlock thought. This is where John wanted to be, rather than come home. This is where John saw hope, saw escape, and went for it.

"He just…jumped?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft said gently, "He wasn't well, Sherlock. Who knows if he even knew what he was doing." He turned to face his brother. "This is the place where John said good-bye to you, to me and the whole world." He nudged Sherlock. "Say 'good-bye' here."

Sherlock nodded at Mycroft, but he realized he didn't know what to say. His throat was tight. This was a terrible place to die. Dirty, noisy, horrible, horrible.

When Sherlock looked down at the tracks, he could see John's body in his imagination, laying across the tracks, his hands and feet severed, a mangled torso with the stump of a head. But the body was still living, and struggling to sit up at attention, surprised at the visit.

Sherlock didn't say 'good-bye.' Instead he said, "John. It's me. It's Sherlock," as if he expected a reply from the dust.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

_Dear John,_

_Thank you for everything._

_-Sherlock_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Sherlock didn't tell Molly or Lestrade what he'd learned about John.

Months passed.

Sherlock didn't return to detective work. But with continued medication and therapy, Sherlock was living a functional existence. He could rise from his bed without much coaxing from Molly. He could shave…kind of. He could make coffee. He was very excellent at brewing coffee. He could fold laundry and iron his own clothes (he did not, in fact, launder his own clothes, that would require leaving the flat, and Sherlock did that as little as possible) and he participated in the revolving duties of food preperation and cooking with his two flat mates. He even learned to live with the red poppies. As time went on, the flowers didn't come in the mail anymore, and they weren't left on the stoop. But they still grew in pots around 221b, and in Mrs. Hudson's garden.

Lestrade eventually moved into Molly's bedroom.

Sherlock was briefly enraged. Then he felt guilty and miserable. He never wanted to admit it, but he had grown dependent on his friendship with them. He loved Molly and Lestrade. But they loved each other more than they loved him. Someday, they would leave.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

One night, in a fit of madness, Sherlock decided he was going to suck Lestrade's cock.

John was dead because Sherlock was gay, and goddamn it, he was going to suck cock until he sucked enough to make his death worthwhile. Which meant he had a lot of cock to suck, maybe more than the world had to offer, and he was going to start with Greg Lestrade because _fuck it_, fuck _everything_.

Sherlock made it up the stairs and even pounded on the bedroom door, John's old bedroom door, Molly and Lestrade's bedroom door. And when Lestrade opened up, standing there in the dark, in boxer shorts and black socks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he asked with drowsy concern, "Sherlock? What's wrong?"

And Sherlock didn't know what was wrong, but he couldn't stop shaking, and he just stood there stupidly while Molly turned on the bedroom light and climbed out of bed, rushing over to them. She hugged him and Sherlock accepted it and buried his face into her shoulder and wished to God that the floor would just swallow him up.

Later, he accepted an emergency sedative Molly kept in the medicine cabinet and went back to bed alone.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Sherlock talked about his reoccurring desire to suck Greg Lestrade's cock to his stunned therapist.

She assured him it was okay to fantasize, but suggested maybe he shouldn't approach Lestrade about it, both because Lestrade had demonstrated that he was heterosexual and a solicitous request might make him uncomfortable, and also because he was Molly's boyfriend and inviting her boyfriend into a sexual liaison was both dishonest and might strain their friendship, or possibly end it.

Sherlock agreed he didn't want his friendship with Molly to end, and he didn't want to make Lestrade uncomfortable, but that's all they agreed on.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Sherlock tapped Lestrade on the shoulder. "Hey."

Lestrade was sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through online help wanted ads. "Hey," he huffed, rubbing his stubbly chin.

"I want to tell you something."

"Hmm."

Sherlock said, "I have a crush on you. My therapist says it's normal and I don't want you to feel alarmed. Apparently, it's very common for someone to project their immature sexual feelings on a 'safe' individual who the primary agent knows they can never have a sexual relationship with either because that person is a celebrity or a figment of their imagination or, in this instance, my heterosexual house mate who's in a committed relationship with a mutual friend. I decided to tell you this because something similar has happened to me before in the past, and at that time I decided to try and keep it secret, though my affections manifested themselves in a form of passive-aggressive flirting that ended my friendship with a close mate. Anyways, I'm very fond of you, and I'd like to continue our friendship, and I would also like you to never leave me forever and disappear into nothing. Can we stay friends?"

Lestrade stared up at Sherlock, horrified. "Um. Yeah. We're still friends."

Sherlock nodded. "I want to tell Molly, too."

Lestrade just continued to sit, horrified and confused. "Uhh, no mate. Don't tell her. We can keep that between us."

Sherlock frowned. "No. We can't keep secret like that between the two of us. That's a level of intimacy and trust that should be reserved for couples. And especially given the sexual nature of what I've just told you, it's extremely important that Molly knows."

Lestrade's face was grim. His eyes darted back and forth, his mind in overdrive.

Sherlock said, "Look. I think she's more mature and rational than you think. I don't think she's going to storm down here in a rage. And if she does, I'll move out."

Lestrade sat quiet a minute. "Do what you think is right in your heart, mate," he finally resigned.

And with that, Sherlock turned and left the kitchen and went upstairs to Molly's bedroom. Lestrade waited in the kitchen, staring up at the ceiling, tense and miserable, waiting for the sound of a girlfriend's jealous eruption.

It didn't come. It was eerily silent.

After about a half hour, Sherlock came down the stairs again and crossed the kitchen. He was conspicuously missing any black eyes or bruises, so Lestrade assumed things had gone well. "See?" Sherlock said. "She was fine."

Lestrade nodded. "Good. I guess."

Sherlock went by, walking down the hall towards his bedroom. A moment later, Lestrade heard the door shut gently.

A few minutes later, Molly came padding down the stairs. She stood in the entrance way of the kitchen, leaning against the door jam. "Hi," she said.

"Yeah. Hi," Lestrade returned awkwardly.

Molly sauntered into the kitchen and pulled a stool out from under the table and sat next to Lestrade. She gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. "So," she began. "I understand you're, um…"

Lestrade waved in Sherlock's direction. "Yeah, I know. He told me all about it."

"…Sherlock's _inspiration_."

"Shut up."

"You _fuel_ his fantasizes. You _hunk_, you."

Lestrade massaged his temples. "Please, don't. God."

Molly smiled bashfully. "He's very sweet, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Lestrade said smiling. "The more medicated the gets, the more touchy-feely he gets. You know, there is such a thing as 'too much therapy.'"

Molly swung her legs under the stool. She eyed a cup of coffee next to Lestrade's laptop and took it and sipped from it. "Don't make fun of him. He needs all the support he can."

"Well, one day he's going to have to make it through a day by himself," Lestrade bristled. "Or else he's going to have to move into some assisted living home. We can't prop him up forever."

Molly scoffed. "Oh, god, not you, too. What is it with you men?"

"What?"

Molly gestured towards Sherlock's bedroom. "He thinks you're handsome. He admires you. He _likes_ you. He's gay. What's so threatening about that? He has stated, very directly, that he isn't going to persue you. So why can't you leave it at that? Why is the first thing on your mind is how you can get away from him?"

Lestrade said, "Imagine if the tables were turned and there was some guy you had no interest in, and he confesses he was in love with you. You're firmly not interested, but you know he is. And you have to be around him all the time. Wouldn't that make you uncomfortable?"

"But he's not _some guy_," Molly reasoned. "He's _Sherlock._ And you _know _him. He's not….going to smuggle you in a minivan and you're not going to wake up handcuffed to a radiator in his basement. He's not a stranger with the potential to be a psycho killer and he's not going to stalk you and peer into your bedroom window. He's just a sweet, lost man. And he wants you to know he likes you, because he doesn't know what else to do with his feelings." Molly leaned closer. "And do you have any idea what it would do to him if he found out you felt this way?"

He closed his eyes. "Yes. I know."

Molly looked away.

Lestrade rubbed his eyes. "Shit. Shit." He stood up abruptly. "'S'cuse me."

Molly was puzzled, watching Lestrade walk out of the kitchen and go down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and he knocked on the molding. "Hey."

A moment later, the door budged open and Sherlock peered out. He looked quizzical, then opened the door wide. "Yes?" He sounded a bit worried.

"I forgot to say something," Lestrade said. "Um. That was good of you. To tell me and Molly. It could have gone bad for you, but you care about how we feel and you took a risk just to be honest. I know I can trust you because you trust me. But, you're also not some selfish, special snowflake who's going to say 'To hell with Molly and Greg, I've decided who I'm going to sleep with and I'm going to go after it.' Because respect us more than you care about your own gratification. You're a good friend. And you're a better person than you think."

Sherlock looked positively puzzled. "Oh. Thank you."

Lestrade swallowed. "Don't let…our…us…all of us…the whole world...don't let anyone's opinion or small-mindedness bring you down, okay? You just keep doing what you're doing. You're doing it right."

_To be continued…_


End file.
